It was an unexpectedly overcast day in California and the breeze chilled my sandaled feet. I was eleven years old. A playhouse made of brown chunks of sod piled like bricks leaned towards a wooden fence. Soft redwood bark chips covered the ground. There was nothing green in sight. Trowels in hand, Roxanna and I studied a petunia seed packet and considered which corner would get the right amount of sun. She went into the house briefly, leaving me in the company of her much younger sister Caroline whom we had been ignoring. Caroline rested her belly in a canvas swing seat, letting her head hang down, and fitfully walked her toes on the ground to turn her body and twist the chains of the swing. She was singing and it was soon obvious to me that she was making up the song as she sang. In that moment I realized a number of things. I used to make up songs as I sang them. I hadn